It was evident that the bears had not become aware of their presence, either by sight, or scent, or sound; they kept on with their ghastly feast.
Not quietly, though, but with much snarling and growling.
“Just hear them,” whispered Rory. “Wouldn’t you think they’d be content with a whole whale? But, big and all as they are, it will be many a day before they finish their dinner.”
“They never will finish it,” said Allan, “unless I have lost the art of holding my rifle straight. Are you ready, Rory? Well, you take the nearest Mr Bruin; aim straight for the skull. I mean to give that centre gourmand a pill to aid his digestion.”
They both fired at once, and with this result—the centre bear sprang into the air, then fell dead on the snow; the near bear was only wounded, he sprang on one of his fellows, and a most desperate combat ensued. Another volley from behind the rock put a different complexion on the matter, and one more bear dropped never to rise.
“Hand me a cartridge,” said Rory, “I’ve just fired my last.”
“In that case,” cried Allan, in some alarm, “let us be off, for I have only two more cartridges; and look you, we have irritated these monsters, they are making directly for us.”
This was true. A polar bear is at no time an animal of a very sweet temper, but only just interrupt him at his dinner, and he will have revenge if he possibly can.
“Shall we fire again?” said Rory.
“No, Rory, no. Come on quick, boy, there isn’t a moment to lose.”